The Bund was enveloped in the night. Across the river, numerous neon lights on the eastern bank started projecting fanciful attractions for a new part of the city. She might have been telling the truth, except the part about her own activities.

“How did you get those photos?” she said.

“Somebody sent them to me. Don’t worry about it. No one knows anything about our meeting tonight. No one could have suspected-in a lovers’ nest.”

“A penny for your thoughtfulness.”

“Now, you mentioned that Ming contacted you as late as the Chinese New Year. According to my information, Xing got away in early January. If that’s true, Ming got out later than Xing.”

“I can’t be sure of the exact date. Ming may still be here, I’ve heard something about it, but I’m not sure. I’m going to make phone calls, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

“That will really help. You know how to contact me.” He put down his cell phone number on the back of his business card and rose from the table.

At the restaurant exit, the elevator door opened like a grin, and she leaned over, whispering in his ear, “You promise that you will return the pictures?”

“I give you my word.”

“Get rid of them in your memory too.”

He was surprised at the coquettish way she made her second request. It was not like her-not in the days of their reading group. But he did not know her anymore, not after so many years.

“I will, An.”

“I will come or call, Chen,” she said. “If not tomorrow, then the day after tomorrow.”

AN DID NOT COME or call the following day, nor the day after it, as she had promised.

Chen did not want to think too much about it. He tried to put his father’s calligraphy scroll on the wall. Liu Zhongyuan was a great Tang poet, and like some of his contemporary intellectuals, Liu had been politically disappointed- with those red rats controlling the court-but it was in his exile that he wrote his best poems. Chen wondered whether this could be the reason why he wrote so little of late. Then his mind wandered away, thinking of several lines by another Tang dynasty poet who also wrote in his down-and-out days:

Chen recalled those lines in a self-depreciative mood. But he was not exactly worried. There was no telling whether Ming was still hiding in the city, and it would take time for An to find out. Still, she would cooperate. After all, he had the pictures in his hands.

In the meantime, he kept himself busy interviewing other officials on the list. He made a point of being perfunctory and polite, never pushing anyone too far. The message would be clear: he had learned the risks involved from Director Dong and now Chief Inspector Chen was merely putting on a show-that’s all it was.

He also made inquiries into Ming’s business-through his personal connections, under the excuse of apartment hunting. He had been talking about buying his mother an apartment for some time, so his questions about real estate companies seemed natural. Ming having disappeared, his company had gone temporarily into disarray, but the housing project was said to be moving forward with no real disruption. Before his mysterious evaporation, Ming sold the company to someone named Pan Hao. Pan was a mystery man, allegedly from Beijing, with several large companies under his name. So the financial future of the new company seemed to be secure.

He got a call from Detective Yu in the afternoon.

“In a press conference held yesterday,” Yu said, “Party Secretary Li bragged and boasted about your work under the Party Discipline Committee.

“What? He promised not to tell anyone about it!”

“He mentioned you as our ace detective, and your assignment as another proof of the government’s determination to fight corruption.”

“It’s really becoming a part of a show, as you’ve said.”

“The publicity won’t do you any good.”

“No, it won’t. But my assignment is probably no longer a secret after my talk with Director Dong. Not in that circle anymore.”

“Director Dong-any new development?”

“Not yet,” Chen said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

For quite a long while afterward, Chen remained upset with the news. Why should Party Secretary Li have trumpeted his investigation like that? It was putting him on the grill of public attention. Not to mention the political.

He made a few more calls for interview appointments.

An still didn’t call. Chen gazed at the scroll and lit a cigarette. The ashtray was already full. It was shaped like a shell, as if trying to catch a message from the distant oceans. He was seized with a portentous feeling. She should have touched base with him, progress or not. So he called her. No one answered. Neither in her office, nor at her home.

Around six o’clock, he opened a can of Qingdao beer with a pop, and again dialed her home number. It was answered by an unfriendly, unfamiliar male voice.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m a friend of hers,” Chen answered. It was not her husband Han, that much Chen could tell immediately.

“A friend of hers-” the man said. “What’s your name?”

Chen wondered whether it could be someone she was seeing-possibly none other than Jiang. But the way the man asked the question was ridiculous. Whoever Chen was, the man had no reason to be jealous. An was probably not at home, otherwise she would not have permitted another to talk like this.

“What’s that to you?” Chen said, ready to hang up. “I’ll call back later.”

“Don’t hang up, man. It’s useless. I’ve got your number.”

That was strange. Caller ID was still something rare in the city. She might have it at home, but what could the man do? Chen took a gulp of the cold beer and said, “What do you mean?”

“Tell me who you are, and your identification card number too, or we’ll find out, and then it will be big trouble for you.”

“Are you a cop?”

“What the hell do you think I am?”

“What do you think I am?” Chen snapped.

“Listen”-the man at the other end of the line raised his voice-”I am Sergeant Kuang of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”

“Listen-I am Chief Inspector Chen Cao of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”

“What-oh, I am so sorry, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. It’s like the flood washing away the Temple of the Dragon King.”

“What has happened, Kuang?”

“An Jiayi was killed early this morning.”

“What?” Chen was stunned. “So you are there in charge of the homicide case?”

“Yes. I’ve just arrived.”

“Where was her body found?”

“At home. She was supposed to appear at the TV station in the afternoon, but she did not turn up. People called everywhere, without success. She had never missed a show before. According to the secretary at her PR company, An complained about not feeling so well the last few days. So the station sent someone over to her home, and they discovered her body.

“Don’t move the body or do anything,” Chen said. “I’m on my way.”

“I won’t. Celebrity cases can be too tough for our ordinary homicide squad.”

Chen detected the sarcasm in the response. Kuang wasn’t eager for his cooperation. Every now and then, Chen’s special case squad had to take over the politically sensational cases-which was not pleasant for him. Still, such a division of labor was far from pleasant for people in the homicide squad too, depriving them of the limelight as it did.